Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  His expression was so gentle that I almost felt guilty for having taken that tone with him. “How did your husband’s brother contrive to come back to life?” he asked.

  Uncertain whether he was entirely in earnest, I said, “He didn’t. He had led everyone to believe he was dead, but all the time he was alive, either in disguise or in hiding. He was not one of the revenants from the folklore you study, Mr. Lynch.”

  His response was so strange that, long after the rest of that conversation had dimmed in my mind, it remained clear in my memory… along with the curiously penetrating expression that accompanied the words.

  “How do you know for certain?” he asked.

  Perhaps it was foolish of me to be so disconcerted by his question. I said something inconsequential and then remembered that I had promised my grandmother that I would send him to her, and told him so. He made a polite farewell—his manners were always irreproachable except with his guardian, I had noticed—leaving me alone in the library.

  I welcomed this opportunity to peruse it uninterrupted. My mother must have had an unusually impressive education for a woman to have schooled me as she had, and if any of her books remained here still they might give me another window into her personality. True, my grandmother had said that everything of hers except for what was in the trunk had been disposed of, but I suspected that schoolbooks might have been kept so that her brother, a few years younger, might use them in his turn. Likewise, literary classics might well remain here, and I hoped that I might find marginalia left by my mother.

  But another look around the room revealed many empty shelves. There was room for perhaps five times as many books as were present. I wondered if my grandmother and uncle had sold off many of the books as their financial straits worsened. My uncle struck me as the kind of man who would rather spend his time shooting than reading, and as for my grandmother, reading was probably difficult now for her… and all too soon she would have no need of any earthly possessions.

  The books that remained seemed to bear out my theory, for there were few that looked valuable, either for their plates or for their age; almanacs there were, and bound issues of Cornhill Magazine and Odds and Ends, and of course Mr. Lynch’s collection of fantastic reading. I found a primer much written in with pencil, but the childish, straggling letters might have belonged to any youngster. The range of books seemed to reveal differing tastes among members of the household: a volume of Trollope rested cheek by jowl with the essays of Dr. Johnson, which in turn rubbed shoulders with a guide to diseases of sheep and cattle. I riffled the pages of any that were old enough to have been present during my mother’s tenancy, but found little besides an occasional underlined passage. Either my mother’s books truly had been removed, or she had had too much respect for their sanctity to mark up their pages with her own thoughts. It occurred to me that had she been less conscientious I might have more clues to her inner life.

  When Atticus returned I was turning the pages of a volume of Donne’s poetry. “I asked your uncle if we could postpone the remainder of the tour,” he announced. “I thought you and I could take a turn and enjoy some fresh air together while the rain has stopped. Your countenance and conversation are exactly what I need after two hours with our host.”

  I assented at once, and as soon as we had donned outerwear that would fend off the wind and drizzle, we left the house.

  The fresh, cold air was bracing, and I inhaled it gladly even though its force whipped my cloak about me. The fine precipitation was almost more mist than rain, and it was refreshing against my face as we rounded the corner of the main wing and came upon the cobbled courtyard held in the bend where the two main wings met. As we neared the tumbledown portion I saw to my consternation that a tree was actually growing out of an embrasure that had once held a window. “This part of the house must not have been habitable for many years,” I exclaimed. There was even a gable that held the outline of what must once have been another rose window; now it was bare and open to the wind.

  The sound of a thin voice raised in a hymn, coupled with the sound of stone scraping against stone, drew us onward. Last night’s storm seemed to have loosened some of the masonry in the ruined wing, for great blocks of stone were strewn on the gravel. The stooped figure with the straggling white beard who had met our coach the first day must be Thomas. He was shoveling smaller rocks and crumbled bits of masonry into the cart. He was dwarfed by a massive figure with his back to us, who could only be Grigore. He was picking up the large blocks of stone and setting them into the cart as if they had been no more substantial than cubes of sugar. As we approached, Thomas broke off his singing and touched his cap to us, and Grigore turned to see who he was greeting.

  His eyes widened at the sight of us, and he crossed himself swiftly. Muttering to himself in what I supposed to be Romanian, he fumbled at the neck of his smock and drew out a crucifix that hung from a thong around his neck. He held it out as if it would fend us off. There was something eerie as well as absurd about this giant of a man cringing before my husband, who had never done a cruel deed in his life.

  “Good morning,” said Atticus cheerfully, evidently hoping to convince the man that he meant no harm, but Grigore continued to mutter to himself. A prayer to ward off evil? I wondered.

  “Good mornin’, my lord,” said Thomas in his thin treble, and raised his cap to me. “My lady.” But even as I returned the greeting, his eyes slid to the other man, full of apprehension. What did he expect the man to do?

  His anxiety had not escaped Atticus, who sighed. “We had best take another route for our walk, Clara,” he said in an undertone. “I think our presence will agitate Grigore too greatly.”

  “As if you were not the kindest man anyone could encounter!” I said in an indignant whisper, but I did not argue as we turned our steps away from the house and to a rough path that led gently uphill.

  The rain from the night before made the route slippery. Atticus relied much on his stick, and mud squelched beneath our feet with every step. But the view as we ascended was worth a bit of messiness. The green dales divided by lines of stone spread out beneath us, and the hillsides were tufted with purple heather and wildly misshapen trees, evidently tortured into these strange contortions from decades of the persistent wind. Outcroppings of rock showed their jagged shapes against the sky. The slate-gray clouds overhead seemed to stretch out endlessly, a foreboding but bleakly beautiful sight, and beneath them the sooty gray walls of Thurnley Hall seemed like an earthbound thundercloud.

  “What a remarkable view,” I said, drawing Atticus to a stop. “It is as if there is more sky here than anywhere else in the world.”

  “It is remarkable, as you say. But some day I want to take you to Europe with me. You will be enraptured by the Black Forest—there is nothing that inspires such awe as the Alps. And how you shall love Florence!” Catching himself up short, he laughed at his own enthusiasm. “How patient you’ve been, Clara, not pressing me to take you on a wedding tour. It is high time we planned one.”

  “I never expected such a thing,” I said, startled, but he had seized my imagination. My thoughts were suddenly filled with scenes I only knew from paintings and engravings. The chance to see them in the company of my husband, to learn about them through the lens of his education and experience, tempted me greatly. “With the school and the new Home, can we think of going away for any length of time?”

  “Perhaps next summer. By then they will require less attention and can be safely left in Bertram’s hands for a few months. Would you like that?”

  “Like it!” I exclaimed, even though I wondered how the coming child would complicate this scheme. Mentally I counted ahead. Even if our child was old enough by then to travel, we would need a nursemaid. Indeed, we would need one in any case, which meant that soon I ought to begin seeking one. There were so many preparations not yet begun, and still I did not know how to broach the subject.

  I realized that we had been standing in silence for
some minutes, and I came to myself to find Atticus regarding me with concern in the set of his brows. “Is there something about the idea that troubles you?” he asked.

  “Not at all!” I said hastily. “I was just thinking about all the arrangements that will need to be made. It’s a wonderful idea, Atticus. You are so generous to me.”

  My words chased the faint crease from his brow. “It is my pleasure to spoil you, my love.”

  I linked my arm through his as the wind rose again, buffeting me with a force that might have pushed me off balance were it not for him to anchor me. Two against the wind, I thought, and smiled. Yet another way in which the going was easier for two rather than one alone.

  How quickly, I realized, I had come to rely on his presence. For nearly two decades before our marriage, I had made my way in the world alone. I had friends, but they were neither numerous nor intimate; in all important ways, I had been solitary. Self-sufficiency had held a degree of satisfaction, but it had been a cold life. I had become wary and distrustful, certain that I could rely on no one, and believing that I was destined to live the rest of my life without love since the man I had thought I adored above all else had been taken from me. A joyless existence it had been—yet I had been so slow to leave it behind, to let myself trust in Atticus and at last to love him.

  Now I knew how wondrous it was to have a companion in the great adventure of life. Just as I had someone with whom to share my joys, I no longer had to bear my troubles alone. How exhausting it had been to bear the sole responsibility for my existence. No one in those days would make certain that I was fed or clothed or tended when sick—not until Sybil Ingram had taken me under her wing, although she had been so flighty that even her patronage had carried no guarantee of security. Now, however, I could lean on Atticus, resting in the certainty that I was more than a few coins away from poverty… and, what was far more important, that no matter what adversity might strike us, we would face it together, stronger for being united. Poverty with Atticus would never be as terrifying a prospect as that of poverty faced alone.

  The unexpected thought occurred to me that my uncle’s life must be more difficult for not having a helpmeet to confront his difficulties with him. Had his prejudices prevented any woman from accepting him as a suitor? If so, I applauded the good judgment of the local belles. Or had my grandmother been in earnest when she said he and my mother had been forbidden to marry? The prohibition made no sense, and I resolved to pursue the reason for it. At the same time, I felt a flicker of compassion for my uncle at the idea that he had been forbidden that experience. Why, perhaps his odious views on women might even have been corrected had he married and learned firsthand what worthy creatures we could be.

  Perhaps I should be generous to him after all. I could afford to be, for I had all that any mortal woman could wish for.

  “I wonder if there is a way for us to help my uncle without supporting him outright,” I mused. “If we knew more about the particulars of the property, we might see a way out of the worst of his difficulties. If there is unfarmed land that could be sold without loss of income, or another lead seam that might be worked if we advanced him the necessary capital… you know better than I the kind of thing to look for.”

  “There may also be investments that could be retrenched, or something of that sort. And there may be a part of the property that would be attractive for expansion of one of the railway lines. Just because he has not found a good solution doesn’t mean none exists.” Atticus leaned over to kiss my cheek. “An excellent idea, my love. I’ll see if he’s willing to enter into a discussion that does not begin with the premise of our funding his partridge and port for the rest of his days.”

  I knew it would not be a pleasant or easy task that lay before him, and gratitude flooded my heart that he would take it upon himself for my sake. “Are you certain you don’t mind? It is a great deal to ask you to do for someone who isn’t even your blood relation.”

  “Remember that I have your welfare at heart, and I think this is the best way to bring you peace of mind.” Perhaps I looked taken aback, for he added reassuringly, “I don’t mean that you owe him anything, for you don’t. But your conscience is a persistent one, and it might trouble you in years to come if you had the chance to do a good turn for the man and chose not to. I would prefer to save you from the risk of living with that.”

  His blue eyes were so earnest that I could hardly keep from teasing him, even though I knew he believed every word he said. “You have such a talent,” I said, “for making it sound like I am doing you a favor by letting you solve my problems.”

  He smiled. “It isn’t that I solve your problems, sweetheart, merely that I help you in confronting them. And that—like being your husband—is my honor and privilege.”

  “Thank you, dearest,” I said, but the words were inadequate. I drew him to me and tried to convey my feelings in a kiss.

  “I very much like the way you say thank you,” he said presently. With a smile both tender and mischievous, he drew me closer. “Indeed, I could happily let you express your gratitude for hours on end.”

  But the weather made such open-air trysting uncomfortable, and shortly we descended from our windswept aerie and returned to our room to shed our muddy boots and change our clothes for dry things. It was a relief to warm ourselves by the fire, and I was glad I had brought my scarlet wool melton dress, one of my warmest garments.

  The wind had torn my hair from its chignon and turned it into a wild tangle that gave me the look of a maenad, and I had just finished combing it out and repinning it when a diffident knock at the door sounded. When I called out a welcome, it opened to reveal Mr. Lynch.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said, “but I wondered if you knew whether Mrs. Burleigh is resting. I went to visit her earlier, but there was no answer.”

  The mantel clock showed the time to be nearly noon. “I imagine that Ann will be taking her something to eat soon, so we may as well go round to her room and see,” I said. Even though she had told me to return at five o’clock, it was just possible that my uncle had overheard her say so, I reasoned, so it might be wise to make my visit earlier.

  The massive grandfather clock that stood on the landing opposite my grandmother’s door was just beginning to strike the hour when we reached it, and perhaps for that reason there was no immediate response to Mr. Lynch’s soft tap at the door. I knocked more firmly, and this time the door opened.

  My uncle stood on the threshold—but how changed he was. His usually ruddy face was curiously pale, and his eyes were fixed and glassy. He looked at us as if he did not recognize us.

  “Sir?” his ward said, and from the puzzled tone of his voice I knew that the strangeness of the older man’s appearance had not escaped him. “Is something the matter?”

  Mr. Burleigh’s lips moved inaudibly, and he put a hand to the doorframe as if to steady himself. Then he repeated, “The matter…”

  Dread was gathering in my stomach. “Is my grandmother unwell?” I asked, even though I was not certain I wanted to know the answer.

  My uncle’s eyes alighted on mine, and in them shock had erased all other expression. In a hoarse voice he said, “She is dead.”

  In the silence that formed around these words the clock finished striking. It was noon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I am truly sorry to hear such grievous news,” said Mr. Lynch as the last echoes of the chime died away. His voice was so sympathetic that it was difficult to believe he had spoken to his guardian with such discourtesy the night before. “What a terrible loss for you, sir. I suppose it was another paroxysm?”

  My uncle’s hand went to his forehead, and then he lowered it and stared as if not understanding what it was for. His fingers were trembling. “Paroxysm?” he said as if uncomprehending.

  “I gathered from Lady Telford that she was suffering from her cough a great deal this morning.”

  My uncle’s gaze now fixed itself upon him.
“Yes,” he said, as if struck by a new idea. “Yes, she was.”

  “But she said the doctors had given her months yet to live,” I protested, as though that could make a difference. It did not seem possible for her to be gone so suddenly, with so little warning.

  Mr. Lynch gave me a sad smile. “Doctors have been known to make mistakes, my lady.”

  I had had so much yet to learn from her, though. And when I thought of the ferocity with which she had clung to life even as her body began to fail her, I felt a spark of surprising regret. Even though she had not been a warm or lovable person, she had given me precious knowledge about my heritage and my mother, and she had been a fascinating person in her own right. It seemed bitterly unfair for her to have departed before she was ready… and before I was ready, although I was ashamed of so selfish a thought. Now she would never get to meet her great-grandchild, either.

  “May I see her?” I said suddenly, startling the two men—and myself as well. Since they were staring at me, I sought a way to explain this impulse. “Just to—to pay my final respects. I had so very little time in which to get to know her, and… this is terribly sudden.” I felt as though her death would not be truly real to me unless I could confirm it with my own eyes.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said my uncle. The color was creeping back into his face, although his gaze still seemed remote and stricken. “The body is—I mean, she is in considerable disarray.”

  I tried not to let myself form any mental images of what that might mean. “Nonetheless. I should like to say goodbye.”

  He frowned. “I cannot allow it. Your sensibilities would not be sufficient to the shock. Her illness was not kind, and the strain of the final fit has left her… well, it is not a pretty sight.” He was beginning to sound more like his usual obstreperous self. His hand came down heavily on my shoulder in what I supposed to have been meant as a gesture of sympathy but which felt more like an attempt to fend me off. “I would hate for you to remember her that way,” he said decisively. “Now I must notify Mrs. Furness and tell Thomas to summon the priest and send a wire to our solicitor. Excuse me, niece. There are many things to be done.”