Cursed Once More: The Sequel to With This Curse

by Amanda DeWees

  He withdrew his hand from my shoulder, for which I was grateful, and shut the door firmly behind him. His peculiar state of shock had passed.

  “Is there any way in which I can help?” I asked.

  “No, there’s no need to trouble yourself.”

  “What can I do, sir?” his ward asked. “I shall be happy to go into town and summon the doctor. I am entirely at your disposal.”

  This seemed to catch my uncle off guard, and he simply stared for a moment. Then, thoughtfully, he said, “Yes, that would be helpful. I’ll write a few lines for you to take to him. Come to my study.”

  Then, to my astonishment, he produced a key and locked the door of my grandmother’s room. He was determined that we should not catch a glimpse inside.

  No doubt it was for the best, and he might have been sincere in wishing to protect me from the ugly reality of death caused by sickness. But when this combined with his peculiar behavior, it awoke the gravest misgivings in me. Like everyone else, my uncle had known that his mother’s death was approaching. Why should it have shaken him so much unless something about it had been unnatural? And if that was what he was attempting to hide, that meant he knew—or at least suspected—the true cause of her death.

  When I told Atticus the news, he folded me in his arms and held me close. “I am so sorry, my love,” he whispered. Feeling the comforting strength of his body supporting me, the protective embrace of his arms, I closed my eyes and let the tears come. Without his having to say it, I knew that he comprehended all that this loss meant to me. Not only the loss of my grandmother herself, one of my all too few relatives, but of all that she could have taught and told me. Part of my past was gone, never to be fully known or understood.

  “Can we stay for the funeral?” I asked at length, plucking the handkerchief from his breast pocket and applying it to my eyes. “It may prolong our visit past what we had intended.”

  “Of course we’ll stay. I’ll go into town and wire Bertram.”

  “I’ll go with you. I believe Thomas will be taking Mr. Lynch, so we can ride together.” I tried to think about practicalities—something with which to occupy myself so that my thoughts would not endlessly dwell on the cause of my distress. Atticus and I had stopped wearing mourning for his father some months before, so we had no appropriate clothing with us. “We shall need some black dye. I can probably find some in town if Mrs. Furness has none. And plenty of crape… I shall ask her to make a list.”

  The housekeeper seemed glad enough for me to make the purchases for her, but when I offered to speak to someone about preparing my grandmother’s remains, she said it would not be necessary. She would be washing and dressing the body.

  This surprised me somewhat. For a family of the Burleighs’ status, I would have expected more ceremony. “Do you not need assistance?” I asked. “Is there not a woman in town who does for families in these cases?”

  She shook her head decidedly. “No, my lady. It’s only right that I attend to the lady this last time. I’ve been with the family so long.”

  “How long is that?” I asked.

  “Twenty-five years, my lady.”

  That was indeed a long time—so long that her loyalty to Mr. Burleigh might keep her silent about any peculiarities my grandmother’s body might betray. It would not surprise me if my uncle was somehow forcing her to be complicit in this manner. “I am her family,” I said. “It would be entirely fitting for me to help you.”

  But she was unyielding. “Thank you,” she said, “but it will not be necessary.” Her gray eyes did not waver under my gaze, and they betrayed no weakness of will. Even though her face and figure were comfortably plump and she was too short to be imposing, she managed to create the impression of being unassailable—unmovable, even.

  I could not say that I was entirely sorry to be rebuffed, for preparing my grandmother’s body for burial was not a task that I would be likely to carry out with equanimity. With my shopping list, I withdrew.

  When Atticus and I set out for the village in the company of Mr. Lynch, I was reminded of when the three of us arrived at Thurnley such a short time before, although this time it was old Thomas and not Grigore who drove us. Mr. Lynch accepted my husband’s condolences gracefully. “She and I were never close,” he explained. “I gathered that she disapproved of her son’s taking me as his ward. But if that was what she summoned me to discuss, I shall never know.”

  That was something I had not considered: what had my grandmother wanted to discuss with him so shortly before her death? It occurred to me to wonder if Mr. Lynch was my uncle’s natural son. I knew that the title of ward was sometimes a euphemism for a gentleman’s child born out of wedlock. If my uncle had indeed been forbidden to marry, it was not altogether surprising that he might have sought feminine company, which could all too easily have led to a child.

  If that was the case, though, would there not be some resemblance between them? Yet two more dissimilar men it would be difficult to imagine. There was also the question of whether Mr. Lynch’s origins would have been kept secret if he were really my uncle’s son. My time in the elevated world of my husband, though brief, had already taught me that most connections of this type were an open secret, with no one troubling to maintain secrecy as long as a respectable appearance could be upheld. Still, there were bound to be exceptions. Whatever mysterious reason lay behind the Burleighs’ prohibition against marriage might be a vital part of the mystery, and I wished that I had sought the answer from my grandmother. I doubted that my uncle would be forthcoming about it, as he had sought to prevent her from confiding anything to me.

  Our first stop was the railway station. There was no longer a proper post office in Coley, for as the town had dwindled to a village, many businesses had shuttered. This meant that Atticus and Mr. Lynch had to send their telegrams from the station. By chance, one was waiting for us, letting us know that Sterry, too, had taken ill and could not join us at Thurnley yet. Mrs. Threll offered to send another servant, but Atticus felt that he could do without a valet for the duration and said as much in his answering message.

  After this was accomplished, Thomas took us to the general store, where Atticus and I alighted. Mr. Lynch was leaning out of the carriage window to discuss particulars of where and when he would fetch us after his errand to the doctor when I noticed that two elderly pedestrians had halted in the street to stare at us. Their faces wore an expression so surprising that I could not be certain I was interpreting it correctly. The expression was fear.

  I had no time to hail them and inquire, though, for as soon as they realized they had been observed they turned and almost fled in the direction from which they had come. From their simple clothing and cloth caps I deduced that they were laborers, but the reason for their consternation baffled me.

  Then Mr. Lynch bade us farewell and the carriage moved on, and Atticus linked arms with me. “We should have a good half hour, perhaps three quarters, before Thomas and Lynch return with the doctor. That should be more than enough time for you to make your purchases, shouldn’t it?”

  “Of course,” I said absently. A pale sunshine had broken through the clouds during our stop at the station, and in the light my husband’s hair looked very red indeed. Was that what had frightened the men? Did they, too, believe in stories of vampires? Perhaps some of the townspeople had come over from Romania with my grandmother’s retinue.

  With the help of the shop girl it did not take me long to assemble the items Mrs. Furness had requested. Fortunately the store was thoroughly stocked with all the necessities of mourning, including armbands and hatbands, black-bordered stationery and handkerchiefs, crape veils, and white ribbon. I added a few other items that I thought might be welcome, such as a pound of Assam tea, wax tapers, and paraffin oil. I had plenty of spending money with me, and it gave me a warm sense of satisfaction to be able to provide some necessaries for the household.

  There was even a small selection of ready-made clothes, which made
me pause a moment in thought. Remembering Mr. Lynch’s shabby greatcoat, I wondered if he would accept a new coat as a present from Atticus and me. Clothing was a somewhat intimate gift between those who were not related, but we were close to family, after all, and these were special circumstances.

  Then an even better idea occurred to me, and I had the girl measure off generous lengths of black bombazine and crape. I would offer to make mourning clothes for those in the household who wished for them, I decided. It would give me a healthy way of occupying the time before the funeral, and it might prove that Mr. Lynch would accept new clothes offered thus. It would also provide an excellent excuse for me to make a new dress for myself, and I was in need of one. My waistline had begun to expand, so I would need to either let out the dresses I had brought with me—an alteration that might be conspicuous—or fashion something new to fit my increasing size.

  “Do you need a lad to carry them, my lady?” the young woman asked me after I had paid for my purchases.

  “No, thank you. Mr. Burleigh’s carriage will be coming for my husband and me at any moment.”

  I thought I saw a change of expression flit over the girl’s face, but at the sound of the approaching carriage outside I made abbreviated goodbyes and left the shop with Atticus and my parcels.

  To my surprise, only Mr. Lynch was present in the carriage. “Will the doctor be following later?” Atticus asked.

  Mr. Lynch shook his head serenely. “He felt it unnecessary to perform an examination. Based on what my guardian told me, he felt quite confident in making out the death certificate and sending it back to Mr. Burleigh with me.”

  Startled, I glanced at Atticus to see what he made of this. But his face had taken on the appearance of a polite mask, and there was no way for me to know what his thoughts were until I had the opportunity to ask him in private. Was this normal when a family held such power and a protracted, fatal illness was involved? Our doctor had certainly made the journey to Gravesend upon the death of Atticus’s father, and it was a good thing he had, for it was he who saw the signs that the old baron had not died naturally. It would have eased my mind had Dr. Brandt been present now. Acerbic and impolite he might be, but he was trustworthy.

  But perhaps this man had certain instructions from my uncle. For a brief instant I wondered if Mr. Lynch might have carried a bribe with him, but then I dismissed the thought. He and his guardian were not on such close and sympathetic terms that my uncle would have entrusted such a task to him, even if his ward would have accepted something so dishonest.

  When we arrived back at Thurnley Hall, Thomas took my parcels to Mrs. Furness, and I followed, paying no heed to his astonishment that I should enter the servants’ quarters. Mrs. Furness was giving instructions to Cook as the latter, a stout elderly woman with gray hair mostly concealed under her cap, worked dough vigorously at the kitchen table. When I entered, she made a startled curtsey and stared at me with intent dark eyes.

  “Mrs. Furness, may I have a word with you?” I asked after the housekeeper had made the introductions and I had shaken hands with Mrs. Antonescu, as Cook was more properly known.

  “Of course, my lady. If you’ll come to my sitting room?”

  The housekeeper’s sitting room was small and furnished with what were clearly unwanted pieces of furniture from the main part of the house, but the chair she showed me to was comfortable despite its threadbare cushion, and though the hearth was a small one, the fire that burned there was welcome after the carriage journey. I explained to her my scheme to make mourning clothes for any who wished for them, and she approved it heartily. “Mr. Lynch in particular could use a new suit,” she said. “Of course, you are aware of his condition. That will present a challenge.”

  “I am certain I can produce something suitable, as long as you think he will accept it. I suppose I have come to feel an almost maternal interest in him,” I admitted, “so I tend to forget that we are not actually related.” Not that we know for certain, I added silently.

  Mrs. Furness’s expression had softened. “I understand entirely, my lady,” she said. “He has a way about him that makes one rather protective of him. I’m certain he’ll take your interest very kindly.”

  Now that she was in such an amiable frame of mind, this might be my best opportunity. “It troubles me that I did not get to say a real goodbye to my grandmother,” I said. “I’m certain you are feeling her loss very keenly yourself, so you must understand how I long for one last glimpse of her.”

  But her eyes had gone wary. “I regret to say, my lady, that Mr. Burleigh insists that there be no viewing. He knows how distressing it would be for her family to see Mrs. Burleigh in such a sad state.”

  “It must have been distressing for you,” I ventured, “seeing the ravages of her illness.”

  This gained me nothing, however, as she merely bowed her head momentarily. I dared not question her more minutely; it would be gruesome and even cruel were I to ask for particulars about my late grandmother’s appearance. If only I could learn whether the housekeeper had any suspicions herself. Her guarded expression revealed nothing. Had her employer forced her to keep silent in this fashion?

  “Mrs. Furness,” I said, lowering my voice, “if my uncle has asked anything of you that makes you at all uneasy, please feel free to confide in me.”

  That did produce results, but not what I had expected. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, and she asked quietly, “And what would you be able to do about it if he had, my lady?”

  Startled, I could not at once find an answer. It was true that I had no authority here, an unsettling fact that I had managed to forget. “You could come work for my husband and me,” I offered.

  She shook her head. “I cannot leave Thurnley Hall,” she said. She made the statement sound like a prison sentence rather than a testament of her loyalty, and I wondered what web of events and emotions made her feel that she had no alternative to this dreary estate, which might not even be able to afford to keep her on.

  Perhaps after a quarter century she did not feel she could adjust to a new household and new faces. I could well imagine that being the case with any servant who had been with one family for so long—and, of course, in some cases their tenure was even longer. That brought to mind an avenue of inquiry about my family history that I had not fully explored.

  “Mrs. Furness, are there others still with the estate who might have known my parents?” I asked.

  “Thomas is the only member of the staff who was here that long ago. I regret to say that age has affected his mind, though. I doubt you’ll learn much from him.”

  That was dismaying. “And outside the house? How about any of the tenants?”

  “I’ll be happy to make inquiries, my lady,” the housekeeper said. “I believe, though, that all who were on the estate in your mother’s day are gone.”

  “All?” I repeated.

  Mrs. Furness gave me a look that mixed patience with pity. “Your parents left the area around thirty-five years ago, did they not? In that time, things have changed a great deal, my lady. Even at that time, so I understood from Mrs. Burleigh, many had already given up farming to go to the factories. As you can imagine, that has only grown more common in all the years since.”

  “I hope my uncle appreciates your devotion,” I said, feeling that it was a feeble response.

  At that, she rose to go to the small cherry wood sewing cabinet—evidently banished from upstairs for the gash on one leg—and opened the top drawer. From it she retrieved something that she held out to me. “That reminds me,” she said, and her voice was brisk now. “Mr. Burleigh told me that your grandmother wished for you to have this.”

  “This” was the cameo that the old lady had worn both times I had seen her. The carved weeping lady stood out in sharp relief against the background. It was a large piece, and even to my ignorant eye a beautifully carved one.

  “Mrs. Burleigh wore it every day that I knew her,” she said. “I never sa
w her without it. Your uncle said that he hopes it will help you feel as though your grandmother were still close to you.”

  A pretty thought, to be sure. But my thoughts at that moment were concerned less with the brooch’s sentimental value and more with the question of whether my uncle intended it to distract me from my interest in knowing more about my grandmother’s death.

  “Perhaps it’s a mourning brooch,” Atticus suggested, turning it so that the firelight illumined the relief. “I wonder whose memory it honored. The figure of Niobe would suggest a child.”

  “Niobe?” I repeated. “As in Hamlet—‘all tears’?”

  He nodded, and the firelight cast a ruddy gleam on his hair. We had taken our evening meal on a tray in our room, as had the other members of the household. Tonight, my uncle had decided, we would all prefer privacy and solitude rather than a formal dinner together. Although I suspected that the decision was for his own convenience, so that I would not have an opportunity to plague him with questions, I found it very pleasant to sup privately with Atticus, rather as if we were at home at Gravesend. It was also a relief not to have to hide my tormenting thoughts in the presence of my uncle.

  I tried to dismiss the thought and focus on the present. My years associated with the theater had increased my familiarity with figures of mythology and history, but there were still gaps in my knowledge. This woman’s story was new to me. “Tell me about her,” I said.

  “Niobe was a queen in ancient Greece,” he began, and I settled back in the divan, enjoying the rich sound of his voice. It was almost tactile, like the soft pile of a Persian rug beneath one’s bare feet. “She boasted of her twelve children until her pride angered the gods, and to punish her Artemis and Apollo slew them all. She fled to Mount Sipylos and grieved so pitifully that Zeus took pity on her and turned her to stone, and they say she weeps even still. She is the most famous bereaved mother of legend.”